Page 41 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal (Love from London #3)

“I don’t know anything about you that your father wouldn’t be proud of.

” She made herself continue, even though she felt a slight flush color her cheeks.

“You’re kind, intelligent, hard-working.

You stood beside me during one of my darkest hours, when so many others turned their backs.

That shows great integrity and loyalty, even though it might have come at a personal cost. ”

There it was again—that searing look whose meaning she couldn’t quite place. Intense —that was the word for it.

She forged on. “I’m not sure if I ever said thank you, but I’m grateful. You prevented me from making a terrible mistake; I see that now.”

“Do you?”

She frowned, not understanding the question.

He leaned forward. “What mistake?”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean? Marrying Shelbourne, of course. Getting engaged to him was the biggest mistake of my life.”

He relaxed back against the sofa and opened his mouth, but Arthur ran into the room, Seamus bounding behind him. Candace pressed her lips together in frustration; more than anything, she wanted to know what James had been about to say.

James made meaningful eye contact with his son, arching his brow until Arthur said, “Lady Candace, would you like to see the house?”

“Thank you, I would. I’ve never been here before.”

Candace and James made polite small talk as Arthur played his part with all the gravity of a docent in a museum. James enquired after Vera’s health and promised to send a batch of his cook’s chicken soup over.

“It’s nearly miraculous in its healing properties,” he said as Arthur led them through the huge library. “She always has a pot simmering this time of year.”

“Perhaps our cook can pry the recipe from her.” Candace bent to examine a glass curio full of antique keys. “These are quite interesting. Was your mother a collector?”

“My father. Those are the keys from the original family seat in Scotland.”

“However did the new owners get in?” she teased.

He quirked a smile. “We still own it, though the original house burnt down in 1725.”

“Oh, very sorry.”

“Not at all. My grandfather rebuilt. It’s not as large or as modern as this house, but it has its own kind of charm. It sits above a loch.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“We’re headed there this summer. You should come visit. You and whoever would like to join you. Vera is welcome as well.”

Candace stood from her examination of a collection of pinned butterflies. “I suppose I’ll have time for that this summer.”

She’d forever have time for visiting now.

She didn’t know if the thought was energizing or depressing—that nothing would prevent her from being one of the fashionable set who visited grand country houses and made merry with a grouping of other young people—until those people settled down and started making families.

Then she would become the old spinster, shunted from invitation to invitation out of pity, until one day, no one would remember to invite her at all.

James continued, unaware of her inner turmoil. “The mist rolls in every evening, no matter the weather. You can stand at the window and watch it creeping across the water moment by moment.”

She shook herself out of her sudden melancholy, determined not to be sucked into the mire of her own fears. “ I’ve read of such things in a novel before, but I’ve never seen it myself.”

“One of your tragic romances, no doubt.”

She slid her eyes his direction. “I read more than those, you know.”

“I’m well aware. How are the garden preparations coming along?”

“Funny you should ask that. I was wondering if I might peruse the gardening section of your fine library. I thought there might be more where the first books came from.”

“Of course.”

Candace watched him closely as he led her to the other side of the room. If he was discomfited by her request, he certainly hid it well.

He tapped a spotless bookshelf. “These have to do with horticulture and propagating. These are related to drainage, culverts, watering systems. These might interest you—they deal with the construction of water features and garden follies.”

“But where is the gap for the ones you already brought me?”

He cleared his throat. “Those were a more recent acquisition, but judging by your expression, you already knew that.”

“Arthur let that little secret slip. I have to thank you—it was very kind of you to buy them for me.”

“To clarify, I only lent you the books. I bought them for myself.”

She laughed. “Very well. Thank you all the same.”

“You are exceedingly welcome, though I’ll admit that the gesture wasn’t completely selfless.”

“Oh?”

“I’m hoping you’ll lend me some books in return.”

“Of course,” she said. “Consider all of the books in our library to be at your disposal.”

“That won’t do. Much like how I chose books for you, I’d like you to make selections for me .”

Candace tilted her head. “What subject interests you?”

“Honestly, I’d like to read something I haven’t read before, which is a challenge, as I’ve read extensively.”

She frowned. “Perhaps a history of an exotic nation? We have some fascinating books on Egypt.”

“I was thinking about fiction, actually.”

Her eyebrow raised. “Fiction?”

“Indeed. Some of your gothic novels would be a good start, I think.”

“My...my novels ?”

Candace’s head swam. The last four books she’d read danced before her mind’s eye; she shuddered at the thought of James's large hands holding one of them, reading one of them... Or perhaps it was more a shiver than a shudder, but she didn’t want to admit that to herself.

He continued, “I suspect you brought some of your favorites with you from London?”

Still lingering on the idea of James's hands flipping the delicate pages of one of her novels, she nodded dumbly. Too late she realized her mistake—she might have bought time to order some harmless books from London if she’d claimed she’d left all her books in the city .

“Perfect,” he said, a note of triumph in his voice. “I’ll send a servant to follow your carriage and he can bring them back.”

“I might not be able to find them right away; I’m not sure where Hortense put them.”

“That’s easily enough solved.” He called across the room to her maid, who was staring out a window at the rain. “Hortense? Do you remember where you put Candace’s novels when you unpacked?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” She hurried forward and addressed Candace with a slight frown on her lips. “They’re in a row on the fireplace mantel, remember? You took one down only the other night.”

James turned back to Candace with accusing eyebrows and an amused smile while she internally cursed Hortense’s distraction.

“Right,” she stammered. “How silly of me to forget.”

“Excellent. He will have just enough time to bring them back before his supper.”

Candace pretended to be fascinated by the row of books before her and gave a hum of agreement while panic roiled inside.

Hours later, Candace paced in front of her bedroom fireplace as Hortense held up a paperback, her eyebrows raised in question.

“Not that one,” Candace hissed. “They do nothing but kiss in that one.”

Hortense smirked. “They kiss in every one, my lady. That’s kind of the point of these books, is it not?”

“This is all your fault,” she huffed. “If you hadn’t been looking at the window, mooning over that Thomas of yours...”

“ Mooning, my lady? Mooning ? If you’d like to know the meaning of mooning, I shall point it out next time I see it.”

She jerked to a stop. “What on earth does that mean?”

Hortense ignored her. “And Thomas remains his own; he’s certainly not ‘my’ anything.”

“Please focus, Hortense. Which of these are the least offensive? James's servant has been waiting for nearly ten minutes.”

Hortense gave a syrupy sweet smile. “You’re overwrought, my lady. Slip into your bath, and leave it to me.”

“Thank you,” Candace sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Perhaps you can rip out some pages.”

“Think no more of it. I’ll take care of everything.”